Something That You Need
by ganja-chan
Summary: Sequel to Tricks of the Mind. John has come to terms with his feelings and it seems Sherlock also is fond of him. But nobody said it would be easy from now on. Hopefully, in this story our boys will get some, ahem, bedtime stories. JohnLock, meaning two guys having a go at it; mentions of sex, drug use, dub-con, but nothing overly shocking. Please enjoy and comment :)
1. Prologue

**A/N: Hello, it's me back again! I missed writing Tricks of the Mind so much that I decided to continue it with a sequel. I have a general outline, but I'm still struggling with the original storyline of the series, which is much complicated by the fact that John seems to acquire new girlfriends every now and again, and I still haven't decided whether I want to ignore that fact and simply write JonLock smut or to make it more angsty and emotional again and stick to the storyline (which does not, of course, exclude smut). I have already given up on closely following the storyline presented on John's blog. **

**The story can probably be read as a stand-alone fic, although I highly recommend reading Tricks of the Mind. **

**A short summary of what happened in the first part:**

**John, while masturbating, has a fantasy about Sherlock induced by the smell of the detective's shampoo that he accidentally spills. This and other events lead to him questioning his sexuality. Everyone around seems to know already that John is in love with Sherlock, but for him the realization is painful and when he comes to terms with his feelings, their lives are threatened. In the end, he doesn't tell Sherlock because the detective stops him from doing so. This fic starts in the morning after the incident at the pool. **

* * *

**Prologue**

So once again, was it his mind playing tricks on him or did it all happen in real life?

John wasn't sure about it anymore when he woke up in the morning, feeling refreshed after a good deal of sleep and yet still with that awkward sensation of having forgotten something. He remembered vividly the whole incident at the pool, the bombs, the guns, Jim Moriarty and everything... though he still couldn't get a grasp on how it was possible that he survived all that and that Sherlock survived and that nothing went wrong in the meantime. It was just a little bit too much. He could also remember having to deal with emotions, but there were too many of them to even try to name them. It was obvious that in a life-threatening situations you did experience a vast range of emotions, but those were different. He felt relief, but his heart was still heavy. Was it his depression kicking in again? He hoped not, although it did seem like an old friend somehow.

He rubbed his eyes. It wasn't depression. He still wanted to get up. He simply needed some time to get over it all. The incident at the pool may have seemed a normal event for the tenants of Baker Street 221B, but in fact the whole event was quite traumatic and he desperately needed a break from it.

There was one more thing that he remembered when dressing up. He tried to push it away to the back of his mind, until he at least got downstairs and saw whether Sherlock was in the mood for a talk. Because before the incident at the pool, he realized he loved him. And he needed to tell him before another possibility of being killed arises.

He was wondering whether he should call Harry. He didn't tell her much, he preferred listening to her, and although they hadn't talked for over a week, he decided to be very careful not to say a word about his revelations or he would have to deal with her asking uncomfortable questions every now and again. And Harry could be very annoying when it came to John not responding to her questions – she would make something up in a way that was not only completely wrong but also meant to ridicule John's feelings.

And his feelings were certainly not something to ridicule, now that he has come to terms with them.

Oh, and there was also Sarah. He still needed to break up with her.

John sighed. It seemed a bit too much to handle. He needed a good plan...

* * *

**A/N: Oh and BTW, if you haven't seen the Korean Sherlock trailer, go to YouTube and watch it immediately, because that's where I got the song "Love of the Loveless" by Eels from. And the title's from the song. I suck at titles, that's why I took the simplest way :)**

**No matter if you have enjoyed or not, please comment because that helps me to become a better writer! Also if you notice any mistakes, let me know, as I'm not a native English speaker and I'm sort of bound to make mistakes (or more to make things sound unnatural). **


	2. Chapter 1

**A/N: Next chapter! Much thinking in this one again. I would be very glad if you commented on it, and I promise that there will be eventually some, well, kissing as for now, I'm still not prepared for smut. Thanks to everyone who has commented, PMed me about the fic, favourited it and is following (damn you, verbs).**

* * *

The blog could obviously wait, especially as Sherlock, sprawled on the couch, was in the middle of using John's laptop. John didn't really feel like posting anything right now, he had to get his mind over it first.

He needed to tell Sarah that she was very important to him but they couldn't be together in the present situation. John hoped so bad that she would understand, but now he wasn't that much sure whether that was the outcome that Sarah wanted when she had told him all those things that he hadn't been aware of then. That he cared about Sherlock, which was why he got emotional every time that Sherlock did something that pissed him off.

John grabbed his mobile phone and dialed Sarah's number while he was waiting for the kettle to boil. It was already after 10 AM, so she should already be up.

But apparently, her phone was off or out of reach. John sighed and proceeded to make himself a sandwich, retrieving what seemed like cheese from the safe shelf in th fridge. He had finally taught Sherlock to leave all the odd body parts in the crisper drawer or on the bottom shelf, so even if something started oozing it wouldn't contaminate normal foods.

Sherlock was still tapping furiously onto the keyboard of John's computer. At this rate, John would have to change the spacebar key in a month or so...

"Sarah's out of town, if you want to know", Sherlock told John as the latter dropped into his armchair with a sandwich and a mug of tea. That was typical. He had obviously checked John's e-mails already. And when he said that, John remembered that Sarah _had_ told him that she was taking several days off to visit her sister in Dublin. That was why she wanted to meet him on the day of the pool incident. "Although you should do something about spam, you keep getting daily stats from your blog and it bugs the _hell_ out of me", the detective groaned, frowning and slamming the computer shut. At this rate, changing the screen would be an impending necessity as well.

"What do the stats say?", John asked. Sherlock didn't reply, only looked out of the window with a very haughty expression on his face. "Wait, let me guess. My blog is more popular than your website?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"I take it as a yes", John chuckled. "I told you, ha! People don't want to read detailed scientific knowledge but descriptions of real-life events!"

Calling them real-life events was a bit of an exaggeration, but that wasn't the point. The point was that once in his life John was right. Sherlock scowled at him. John grinned. Things were, more or less, back to normal. Rather less than more, though, as there was still the part about John's newly found sexuality. He knew that extending the period between his realization and actually talking the matter over with Sherlock would only make it harder.

But as Sherlock was still scowling, John decided to touch the topic in the afternoon. Asking Sherlock for dinner at Angelo's was a perfect idea as it could pass as a normal friendly dinner or as a romantic one, if circumstances permit. But he would ask Sherlock later, and in the meantime John could be of use. For example, do the laundry, some cleaning and shopping...

* * *

He didn't feel gay at all.

It wasn't any different than being attracted to a girl, only that Sherlock was a guy and that made technical matters a bit more difficult. John had first been attracted to him on intellectual and mental level – since the day they met, he knew that Sherlock was the only one in the world who could give him enough excitement to bring him back to life. He was special to him from the very beginning, and now it seemed to John that it had only been a matter of time before he started missing him when they were apart. First he had thought he missed the adrenaline, but then with the few cases he tried to solve by himself he discovered that he tried thinking like Sherlock would (and of course failed miserably). The adrenaline was there, but he needed _him _then. He was addictive.

He killed a man for him, for Heaven's sake. That was something. He wouldn't do that for anyone else, but he didn't hesitate do to it for Sherlock. It wasn't the easiest thing on earth, mind you. He had to muster up all his courage and just do it. And somehow, in his head, that made Sherlock a special person, too. A reversed logical assumption.

Together, they got into the most absurd of situations, sometimes Sherlock himself making them absurd. John smiled to himself, remembering the crazy incidents like Sherlock accompanying him and Sarah on the date or the violin concerts at 3 AM in the morning...

And if Sherlock did something wrong (like waking him up with the said concert), he first was more pissed off than by anyone in his life, and then couldn't help but simply forgive him because he _needed _him at his side. It wasn't only the excitement during a chase after a serial killer, while searching a basement that no one had stepped in for what seemed like centuries or while negotiating with an assassin. It was also that going back to the dull, gray life he led before would lead to John hanging himself.

He realized he had spent several minutes staring at a sock in his hand, in the middle of its way to the washing machine. He tucked the sock among the other clothes already in the drum. Mostly black, mostly Sherlock's, obviously. It was funny to think that Sherlock, despite being in his own mind better than everyone else, also had to change his socks from time to time, even if nothing squirted blood on them or did other nasty organic things. John had been part of the detective's daily life that seems actually pretty normal, if you skip going to sleep at all kinds of hours or not at all and eating close to nothing. Though being part of Sherlock's life involved mostly doing his laundry, shoving food at him when it had already been too long without a proper meal, and maintaining the flat in a more or less clean and ordered state. Which of course sometimes pissed John off, as Sherlock didn't usually didn't help much with the cleaning and John certainly could use some help, but somehow it made John feel needed too.

Apart from being the equivalent of Sherlock's maid and sometimes cook, John had been the one that actually saw Sherlock _care_ about someone, and he was all the more lucky that the chosen one was him. He saw that in his eyes at the pool when he was hurt so deeply, and before at the planetarium. He didn't have to ask about them being friends anymore, he knew. Sherlock could say everything he wanted, but John knew that somewhere there below this always ridiculously disheveled mop of hair was hidden good conscience, even though it was probably tucked safely away in the small cupboard in last room in Sherlock's Mind Palace, to which Sherlock pretended to have lost the key. Anyway the display of emotions with only John as a witness was something that made him feel kind of special, too.

John was wondering whether he had his own room in the Mind Palace and what it looked like.

* * *

John's heart skipped a beat when he got a text from Sherlock because that was precisely what he had been intending to ask and the bastard somehow _knew_. _Again_.

_Would you like to have dinner at Angelo's tonight? - SH_

"Sherlock, for Heaven's sake, why are you texting me if you can just call me?!", John yelled from the kitchen at Sherlock, who was in his bedroom, curled up on his bed like a five-year-old, apparently still offended by the difference in website popularity.

_Incoming call: Sherlock Holmes_

John canceled the call and stormed into Sherlock's bedroom, wanting to yell "That's not what I meant!", but the words got caught in his throat immediately by the sight of Sherlock flinging the bedsheets over himself.

That was because he was absolutely, totally, completely naked. Even the socks were gone. John's eyes roamed the vast expanse of skin presented to him (Sherlock managed to cover only the essential regions; was it on purpose?) and he gulped.

He still wasn't gay. It was just somehow that he knew he was blushing, that his breath hitched suddenly and that his jaw dropped a bit, and he had to lick his lips. It wasn't that he hadn't seen Sherlock partly naked before, they _lived _together after all, so there was the occasional shirtless stroll or an I'm-not-wearing-anything-but-my-bedsheet-thank-you -very-much, but somehow rushing like that into Sherlock's bedroom, which was his most intimate space in the whole house, and seeing him naked there, with a great deal of surprise written of his face, was in a way erotic.

He stopped the thoughts abruptly before they went anywhere near sex. John was okay with his affection towards Sherlock, but he could almost feel his brain short-circuit with the new experiences that happened between neurons. He definitely wasn't ready for everything at once, it was all so new to him.

And Sherlock was just staring back at him, wide-eyed. He did catch him by surprise. But soon the look of astonishment was replaced with a smug grin.

John lifted his hand and covered his eyes.

"Why the hell are you naked?", he sighed just as Sherlock asked with sheer curiosity:

"Are you aware of the fact that you are a perfect display of physical attraction right now?" John was sure that he was already noting things in that silly big mind of his.

There was a rustle of bedsheets and John, through a tiny gap between his fingers, saw Sherlock tugging the sheets over himself so that only his head was visible.

"I'm naked because I was sleeping".

John cleared his throat, looking anywhere but at Sherlock.

"You sleep naked?"

"Yes. You're blushing again!", Sherlock remarked.

"Because you are usually dressed when I'm nearby!" John shook his head. The image of the soft-skinned chest would be burned before his eyes forever. "Why Angelo's, of all places?", he asked as if nothing happened, and squared his shoulders.

Sherlock shrugged. "Thought you'd like it".

"You don't usually do things because _I_'d like them", John remarked.

"There must always be a first time", Sherlock retorted, tugging the bedsheets into a more secure cocoon around himself. "And anyway we didn't have a proper chat together since, let me check, six days and two hours".

"Thanks for informing me", John said. Sherlock's brain was at least functioning normally, although him wanting to _chat_ was a bit disturbing, as he despised small talk in general. But yeah, sometimes they did talk for quite a long time without uncomfortable silence, and it seemed Sherlock was in the right mood for talking, so it was perfect for John. "Just, you know, I'll tell you when I have finished cleaning and we can go".

Sherlock nodded, smiling at him. John had never noticed how his cheeks made those funny wrinkles when he smiled. If he were gay, he would say it was cute. But he wasn't, so he smiled back and went out, closing the door to Sherlock's bedroom behind him.

"You could help me with the cleaning, though", he yelled when he was safely behind the door again.


	3. Chapter 2

**A/N: Finally another chapter. There's a confession inside, but keep in mind that not all issues are solved yet. Please comment and tell me whether I've overdone it with fluff and cliche moments! :) Thanks for reading. **

* * *

John started to get nervous an hour before they were to go to Angelo's.

That was because Mrs. Hudson turned on the radio and there were lots of crappy songs about love. John never listened to the radio, he preferred to watch news on the telly or read them in a newspaper, or on a site on the internet because he wasn't really fond of useful information about the world being interrupted with American teenagers singing about their babies or wanting the guy of their dreams to call them.

And, worse, he had started to understand the lyrics. It was an undeniable proof that he was hopelessly in love.

He went to the shower to wash off the dust and everything that stuck to him during cleaning. Of course, Sherlock didn't help with the cleaning at all, and if it wasn't for Mrs. Hudson who took pity on him and at least helped to wipe the kitchen over, he would have probably thrown the damned cleaning cloth on the floor, cursing under his breath, and decided he would do it another time.

He was nervous. He had to admit he was. He had perfect control over his body, of course; his hands didn't shake, his breathing was even - he was a soldier, for Heaven's sake, but it wasn't bloody every day that he was confessing his love to his flatmate. And he was still straight, which only made it more disturbing, because at least for him, being straight meant he liked women, and he had already established that he did _prefer_ women, but Sherlock was that one bloody exception that in this case didn't confirm the rule.

Thus musing, he turned on the tap under the shower and basked for a moment in the hot water, feeling it wash away all the dust and muscle tension that he didn't know was there. He hoped the water would wash away all his doubts, too.

He picked up his 3-in-1 shower gel and his hand brushed the black, long bottle containing Sherlock's shampoo. It made him think of the moment that first made him realize that Sherlock was part of his life in more than the flatmate way. It was, after all the turmoil, a good moment, John decided. It made him admit the truth to himself.

He soaped his hair and body and rinsed. That felt good. He picked up Sherlock's shampoo. On the bottle, there was the name of some expensive-sounding fashion designer, as well as a list of ingredients (nothing unusual here), some words on what it does (why would a man's skin need protection from shampoo?) and a description of the fragrance: the water-inspired scent will fill you with energy and emphasize your masculinity.

John smirked at the pretentiousness at first, but then it appealed to him as something he might actually need after the shower. Why not just squeeze a tiny drop of the shampoo onto his hand... Just a tiny, tiny drop... To see whether it still smelled the same.

But it wasn't the right time for it. He got half-hard simply thinking of the scent, and if he went further...

He remembered the fantasy he had back then, when he first knocked over the bottle and the familiar scent overwhelmed him. He felt his mouth going dry and had to stop now. The sensation was weird, as if he was doing something wrong again. The knot in his stomach was even tighter.

Frankly speaking, he wasn't sure whether Sherlock would approve of what his imagination provided. He could only blame his nature – he always wanted to please, and since recently to please especially Sherlock, now that he was more than a friend to him. Wouldn't imposing his feelings onto Sherlock be like putting the detective in a dead-end street? It was true that Sherlock considered John a friend, he had proven it after all, but what if he didn't think of him as more than that? Would John telling him freak him out? Would Sherlock tell him to move?

These thoughts were utterly depressing.

John rejected them willfully, knowing that they are still going to linger somewhere in his mind, but he would consciously not act on them. His therapy paid off sometimes. He had promised himself to be true to himself at last, even if it were to regret it later.

* * *

When John finally got out of the shower, dried himself and put on his bathrobe, Sherlock was sitting in the armchair, already dressed in his best suit along with the white shirt that _did_ seem a little bit too tight (although maybe he had just put on weight, which was hardly possible, but still), and was fiddling with his mobile phone.

His eyes flicked to meet John's for a split second and that sent a jolt down John's spine.

"I'll be ready in a minute", he mumbled, fleeing to his bedroom to dress himself.

God, how on Earth could one look as _gorgeous_?

He knew that Sherlock's wardrobe consisted mostly of suits and shirts, but couldn't he wear something else, something less intimidating, just this once?

However, it was a bit flattering that Sherlock chose a white shirt for the evening. Although if John asked, he would probably say that it was just the first thing he grasped out of his wardrobe.

John's own set of clothes was definitely less appealing. He chose dark brown trousers, a plain white shirt (the only one he had) and a light blue cardigan, and when he looked into the mirror, he thought he certainly looked like if he was going on a date. He felt a bit like one of these teenagers from the bloody radio songs.

It wasn't a date yet, though, and he doubted it would turn into one, but somehow dressing that way reassured John a bit. There was still the tight knot of what he identified as anxiety in his stomach. He knew that it was fear of rejection, again. He couldn't give in to it, at least not now. If, after all, Sherlock did reject him, he would simply have to live with that, like he lived with many other memories occupying his mind.

But he didn't want Sherlock to become just a memory.

* * *

The wine was delicious. John watched its rich, red colour as it was swirling in his glass when he tilted it. Sherlock had chosen it, of course, as John was more of a beer guy. But it was good. John had to restrain himself from gulping the whole glass in one go.

He hadn't looked Sherlock in the eye since they arrived, only stealing glances, but he knew Sherlock was keeping an eye on him almost constantly.

Sherlock could see something was off. Definitely. John could read it in the way he frowned. They were talking about everyday things, not much different from what they talked about every day if Sherlock was in a mood for it, but John knew that Sherlock was too clever for John's playing for time. And John simply wanted to prolong the uncertainty mingled with hope as much as he could. It was a sweet torture, and then would come either the bitterness of rejection or a bliss of acceptance.

There was jazz playing in the background. One side of Sherlock's face was lit by the bluish lights from the street and the other side by the warm lights of the interior of the restaurant. They were sitting by the same window they did during their first visit.

A waiter brought them two plates with steaming _penne al pesto genovese_, which smelled deliciously. They turned to their plates, picked up the forks. John started devouring the perfectly cooked pasta with the green sauce hungrily, knowing that being hungry made him even more nervous, and noticed that Sherlock was as always only pushing the dumplings around with his fork.

"It's delicious", John remarked, having swallowed a mouthful of the pasta. He looked up at Sherlock.

"Mm", the detective confirmed, then impaled one dumpling on his fork and slowly raised it to his mouth.

John swallowed again, watching the dumpling disappear between Sherlock's lips. That was going to be a torture. Why didn't they order something that was less sexy?

He resumed eating again, although his pasta was definitely less appealing now.

Sherlock ate only half of his portion, but when the waiter came to collect their plates, he commanded him to take his plate too. The waiter refilled their wine glasses. They sat in silence for a moment. John was looking for something to say, staring out of the window.

"Are you sure that was enough food for a man of your built?", John asked, the physician in him taking the lead. He had to start the conversation _somehow_.

"I'm not that hungry", came the reply.

"You're not on a case, there's no reason for you to refuse to eat", John continued.

"Not hungry", Sherlock repeated. John gave up.

There was a long moment of silence again. John was at a loss for words, and Sherlock didn't help much by not saying anything.

John took another sip of the wine. Sherlock's hand was resting on the table, his long fingers fiddling with a fringe on the cotton napkin lying on the table, twisting and straightening it.

John braced himself.

"So... remember the first time we were here?", he finally asked, wanting so bad to do this already.

"Yeah... the Study in Pink", Sherlock said with an audible smirk.

"Everyone assumed we were on a date", John said, managing a laugh that was pathetically unnatural.

"They always do".

John took a deep breath and looked Sherlock in the eyes. As he supposed, he was staring at him.

"Um, listen, there's a reason why I invited you here today", John said. "I just wanted to tell you-"

"Don't", Sherlock interrupted. That pissed John off again.

"God, you're doing the same thing again", he snapped and immediately wanted to take it back. "Sorry. Sorry. I'm just a bit nervous, that's all", he said calmly, hoped that his tone told Sherlock he really meant it.

"Last time I did it you were in shock after the incident with Moriarty", Sherlock explained. "Your thoughts weren't coherent, taking into consideration the fact that it was a traumatic experience, and as I happened to be the one to accompany you through it, you have developed an affection towards me that should pass with time".

John's mouth was hanging open. He processed what Sherlock said.

"But I told you I had thoughts about it earlier", he said at last, frowning.

"I know", Sherlock said. "I observe. Which is why I told you afterwards that it was my turn to tell you".

"What do you mean, I had already told you?", John said, feeling a surge of panic at the sudden thought that he might have been talking in his sleep or something like that, and realizing that what he had thought was a pleasant dream wasn't in fact a dream but Sherlock really did come to his room to reassure him and it was all very sweet of him.

Sherlock's hand shot forwards and grasped John's. John felt his smile grow.

"You told me with the way you were looking at me, with the way you leaned in to touch me whenever such a chance appeared, and you always sniff my hair whenever it's close, for which I know the reason but prefer not to remind you for the sake of others guests in the restaurant. You're obviously attracted to me, and have shown more and more of these symptoms with time, which might mean that you have accepted them to be an expression of your true feelings", Sherlock was speaking very quickly, squeezing John's hand in his, and John was just staring in his face with a sheepish grin. "That is why I knew what you wanted to tell me".

"Actually I meant to tell you in a much different way, but let it be", John said when Sherlock paused for breath. "But I guess it's okay now. What about you then? Want me to move house?", John meant it as a joke, but Sherlock was frowning at him.

"Of course not", he retorted reproachfully. "You have interrupted my logical train of thoughts, please don't do it again because I won't repeat myself. I have described my observations but have not yet drawn conclusions".

"So you treat it as an experiment?", John asked, feeling slightly disappointed.

"Of course not, I would never experiment on you without your consent!"

"Does it mean that after you tell me you feel free to experiment on me as you please?", the disappointment in John grew.

"Can we talk about experiments later? This is theoretical mathematical reasoning", Sherlock snapped.

John wanted to say that it wasn't a bloody maths class, but Sherlock was still holding his hand, and it was pleasant. It was warm.

"I have tried to communicate to you in various ways that I shared this attraction, but obviously you're not observant enough, even though you don't cease to surprise me, John Watson. Discovering your affection was, indeed, a surprise, but a very pleasant one, as I thought that you a) preferred women, b) wouldn't be attracted to a so-called freak and sociopath, c) were at first displaying symptoms of annoyance or anger more than of positive affection, which changed with time", Sherlock leaned in and started speaking in a low voice so that only John could hear him. "But you stayed. I tried to make you leave, I was testing your endurance, and yet you were always there for me. It was marvelous. No one ever does that, and slowly I realized that I need that more than I had expected. You have everything that I don't have, and I was very glad to have had you as a friend".

"Have had", John repeated, a new wave of anxiety sweeping through him. If anyone in this room was unpredictable, it was Sherlock.

"Because now I can't consider you a friend anymore", Sherlock said, giving his hand a squeeze. Was that a goodbye handshake?

"So you want me to move house after all?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed.

"John Watson, you are not only blind, but apparently also deaf", he said, and his tone bordered on laughter. John loved to hear Sherlock laugh, but suddenly Sherlock moved his chair around the table in one quick motion and then his lips hit against John's and it was extremely awkward.

It was the worse kiss ever, more like a crushing attack than a kiss. But at least it was short. John expected his lower lip to swell and bruise, there was warmth spreading quickly around it. He lifted his hand to touch it. Sherlock did the same, a shadow of pain on his face.

"Too much velocity", Sherlock muttered hurriedly, obviously making a mental note of that. "Sorry, that was meant to be a kiss".

John couldn't help but laugh at Sherlock's expression. For once in his life looked like he wanted to take it back. If _that _wasn't human, what was? They were sitting close enough for him to feel the warmth radiating from Sherlock, and the detective was looking at his hands.

"Oh God, you _are _a freak after all", John said, placing his hand on Sherlock's shoulder and massaging slowly. He felt Sherlock's shoulder relax under his touch, and he raised his head to look John in the eye.

John was relieved, but at the same time he knew that the difficulties have just multiplied. It will be more demanding than everything he had ever done.

"Can we take our time with this?", he asked. Sherlock nodded. "You know it's quite hard for me. Just a few days ago I thought I was as straight as a stick, and now... this", he gestured towards Sherlock. The detective intercepted his hand and held it.

"It's feelings", Sherlock stated simply, smiling at John. John grinned and pulled Sherlock in to put their foreheads together, careful not to clash them again. He inhaled. The shampoo was still the same. He felt laughter bubbling in his stomach and soon he couldn't suppress it and started giggling.

"What?", Sherlock asked, perplexed at first, but soon they were laughing their heads off together, and the whole restaurant was staring at them and somehow it didn't matter anymore.


	4. Chapter 3

**A/N: I had a problem with this chapter because I wanted everything to be fluffy and well and hurt/comfort, as an excuse to delve into Sherlock's personality and past. But this somehow wrote itself today on the bus (3h trip from Warsaw to Białystok), so please enjoy and comment :) remember that your comments make me a better writer, and thank you in advance! Also, thank you to my faithful readers ELLYNARA3, WitchRavenFox and Destiny Rain Evans (and everybody who commented on Tricks of the Mind as well). **

* * *

They simply sat there, both still too overwhelmed by their mutual confession to even want to move. At least, John was. He was grinning like a madman and felt as if someone had taken all the weight from his chest, and although there were still a couple of issues that needed solving (they both had such difficult personalities, after all), he knew that there will be a right time for that. There will be a right time for everything now. John wouldn't let himself hesitate anymore. If his and Sherlock's happiness depended on the same thing, if they both needed the same thing, it was his duty not to hesitate to provide Sherlock with his part of it.

They talked about trivial things. They held hands under the table, even though there was no one at the restaurant to see them. They drank the wine. They stole glances at each other. They didn't kiss anymore. It was so cliche that John, slowly creeping into his fourties, felt as if he was sixteen again. Or as if it was another of these stupid dreams, which could hardly be called stupid anymore, as they entailed the discovery of his inner needs, inclinations, tendencies, suppressed emotions, or whatever one might call what he felt towards that man.

The wine they had drunk was quite helpful in making him happy, and he stroked Sherlock's hand from time to time, leisurely and slowly. Sherlock's skin was soft. John could trace the veins visible on his hand, and all that was more beautiful than anything John had ever seen in his life. On second thoughts, he had thought the same about all the women he had been with, but this one evening felt even more special than all those special evenings in his life, probably because he was a new man, having overcome all the obstacles that had seemed impossible to deal with. But he dealt with them, he vanquished all his doubts. And he felt proud because that was something to feel proud about, and he was honoured to be the object of some kind of affection on the part of Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective.

But of course, if John was simply to be happy together with Sherlock for even a short while, it would probably send the wrath of gods upon them or something along the lines. As soon as they finished their bottle of wine, Sherlock's mobile phone rang.

It was, of course, Lestrade. John could hear his voice, although he couldn't make out the words, through the phone's speaker; Lestrade was agitated, begging Sherlock to come along and do something about the case they were on.

John felt like protesting, but when Sherlock looked at him with that excited gleam in his eyes that John knew just too well, he could only sigh with a smile and nod in agreement.

* * *

When they went out of the restaurant into the darkness of the street and got into a cab, Sherlock put his hand tentatively close to John's thigh on the back seat.

John suddenly felt uncomfortable; at the very moment he also felt a pang of guilt in his gut that told him he shouldn't be feeling so. He had just declared his affection (love?) for this man, he was okay with it and apparently Sherlock was okay with it too and even reciprocated it; their relationship had hardly entered into a new phase, and he was already saying no to physical contact? Wouldn't Sherlock feel hurt and rejected at that, especially as it was him who initiated the touch? Such thoughts certainly weren't a good start of a romantic relationship (although John hardly could even call it romantic in his mind, knowing it involved Sherlock who wasn't the most romantic guy on Earth, not with the corpses and parts of them, but then again John would have to think of a better word, just later).

On the other hand, they had just kissed in a restaurant that was empty, but someone could have easily seen them, and everyone in their circle of so-called friends had already been talking about them being together, but these were only jokes, and now it was something real and John really wasn't sure how everyone would react and whether it would be a good idea to tell them at all. But he put his hand on Sherlock's. They were still in private, the taxi driver was just the back of a head (which reminded John of their first case and he smiled at the memory, and then he smiled some more because usually the memories of two people in a relationship didn't include chasing serial killers). The touch sent a wave of warmth straight to John's stomach; it was a chaste contact, but somehow the fact that it was so innocent made it all the more intimate. Of course, he had touched him as a doctor (cleaning wounds; putting a dislocated thumb back in place; looking for broken bones) and as a friend (a pat on the shoulder; a high-five; a friendly shove in the ribs), but he still wasn't used to touching Sherlock in the way that – who? Lovers? Partners? He would definitely have to think about his vocabulary later - do it. Sherlock didn't really allow anyone to touch him on any occasion and John felt all the more flattered that it was the detective who initiated the contact.

John turned to speak to him and communicate his doubts.

These eyes were simply gorgeous. There was a questioning frown forming on Sherlock's forehead. How was he going to communicate his point now?

"Um, Sherlock, listen", he said at last, squeezing Sherlock's hand. "I'm not really sure whether people at the Scotland Yard, and everyone, are, like, ready for the announcement that we, um, you know".

He sounded like a sixteen-year old, so precisely how he was feeling. Sherlock's hand retreated to the safe position in his lap and started fidgeting with his scarf. Sherlock looked as if he would be bouncing out of excitement if it wasn't a waste of energy in his opinion.

John's hand was still resting there on the well-worn fabric of the back seat, somehow feeling cold and lonely, if hands could feel at all.

"I know", Sherlock said with an audible smirk, turning away from John. "I wasn't going to tell them anyway - watching them do their trivial bets will be even better now".

John smiled at him, extended his hand and tucked a loose curl of hair behind Sherlock's ear. He stroked the earlobe gently, wondering whether Sherlock had sensitive ears. The detective was looking out of the window, far away in thw world of his own thoughts.

"You're not really one to demonstrate affection in public, are you?", John said in a low voice.

"Neither in private, as you might have noticed", Sherlock replied, the curl bouncing back to its previous place. "Do you really have to question me on that matter while we're on a case?", Sherlock's tone suddenly changed from neutral into aggressive. John frowned at him, perplexed.

"Wha-"

"Come on, we're already there", Sherlock huffed, the taxi having just pulled to a halt just outside an old tenement house. John stumbled out of the car, paid the driver and ran after Sherlock, who was taking long strides towards Lestrade, already waiting for them at the entrance. John was still feeling a bit hurt after Sherlock's sudden snap, but on the other hand he could tell that things were back to their normal almost-constant bickering. John reminded himself that it was just Sherlock's nature and that he shouldn't expect him to change. Sherlock hated being distracted from a case, and John did precisely that. So it was okay. Sherlock would now do something tiny to reassure John of his positive feelings towards him and everything will be alright.

But he did feel a bit hurt, still. It was just a tiny bit.

But it was there. John knew that he would probably forget, like he had forgotten so many times before when Sherlock wasn't exactly nice towards him, but now it was different. They had just declared their feelings to each other, John had taken such a great risk, they had been so happy, and Sherlock snapped at John anyway. It just... wasn't fair.

_That _certainly wasn't a good beginning of a relationship.

They entered the building, and John heard a familiar voice through one of the door. He couldn't quite pin it to a person, but it turned out that it was coming from the very room to which Lestrade led them.

It was John's therapist, Ms Thompson, talking to Donovan and apparently making some kind of a statement that the police needed. Donovan was taking notes.

As they entered, Donovan turned to them and rolled her eyes at Sherlock, then left with a pained sigh, and Ms Thompson was apparently startled at John's presence. Her long earrings were dangling around her face, shimmering. If John was able to disappear in a puff of smoke, he would be happy to use that ability at that moment. But he could only clear his throat and say, "Hello".

"John!", Ms Thompson exclaimed, her eyebrows high on her forehead. John forced a smile. "Long time no see", she added after a moment with a kind of a smirk that wasn't exactly unpleasant. It just told everyone there that they knew each other, and John would prefer it to have remained a secret.

It wasn't that John didn't like her. He _hated _her. She was his bloody therapist, and you usually hate your therapist because they ask you all the kinds of questions that hurt a lot and that you would rather not touch with a bargepole. They make you cry.

"Yeah, I missed you too", John said, looking for help towards Sherlock, who was peeping into the room adjacent to the one they were in, searching for the body as if it was a prize in a game.

"What are you doing here?", Ms Thompson asked. "And how's your leg?"

"I'm wondering it myself, and okay, as you can see for yourself", John muttered, hoping that Sherlock would take him away from her as soon as possible. Therapists always asked too many questions, and as it turned out, their private lives were no exception.

"John", Sherlock appeared noiselessly at his side. "Stop bothering the witness".

_It was her who was bothering me_, John wanted to say, but bit his tongue. So she was a witness. John wondered for a moment what exactly happened that had his bloody therapist as a witness, but he hoped so bad that she would have to use all those coping techniques to get out of the shit that it left in her mind.

"It would be better if you went home", he heard Sherlock say in a warning tone.

John looked at Sherlock, not sure whether what he heard was real or whether he imagined it.

"Sorry, what?"

"Go home. You know the witness personally, you won't be objective. Go. Home!", Sherlock barked at him, pushing him towards the door.

"What are you- For fuck's sake, Sherlock! Are you dismissing me off a case?!", John groaned as Sherlock shoved him out of the house.

"Precisely", Sherlock replied, his hand on the doorknob.

"Why? What have I done wrong?", John asked as Sherlock slammed the door shut. "You know what?! Go _fuck _yourself!", John yelled and banged his fist at the door. There was, of course, no reaction from the other side.

He went down to the pavement, feeling very much like punching somebody. He took several deep breaths and when his anger subsided a bit, he felt his eyes were burning, and tears were forcing their way out. He had been fighting a very hard battle with himself for such a long time only to be treated like that, and cliché as it was, the rejection hurt physically. One moment there was Sherlock saying that he needed him more than anything else, and then he did the unthinkable, dismissing his partner off a case. Apparently, the need wasn't as strong as it seemed to be. Apparently, John wasn't as indispensable as Sherlock had deemed more than once. Apparently, Sherlock just didn't care and all that could as well be some bloody act. _Another _bloody act.

He considered jumping in front of the passing car, but that would spare Sherlock the need to explain his behaviour after he came back. So it would be better to just wait. John thought of calling Sarah, but then remembered that she was out of town anyway. He thought of calling Harry, but he would have to tell her everything, and he wasn't in the mood for that. Mike Stamford? No, he would have to tell him as well. Was there literally no one he could talk to? Even his therapist was there with Sherlock.

He really didn't do anything wrong, and there was the bloody bastard behaving like a five-year-old that he mentally was. John kicked a trash can and the loud noise it made soothed his nerves. The bastard would have to explain it _so _bad.

* * *

**A/N: As always, let me know of any mistakes or unnatural things in the fic (as you remember, I'm not a native English speaker - that's a great excuse for not checking things in the dictionary from time to time... just kidding ;))**


	5. Chapter 4

**A/N: Hello again. In this chapter I'm afraid that I might have committed OOC-ness. Please don't hesitate to tell me if I did. And here's fluff, so enjoy :)**

* * *

When John had come home alone and went upstairs to his and Sherlock's flat, there was a chocolate muffin sitting on the table with a note from Mrs. Hudson.

'Sherlock called and told me. I wanted to give the cake to you myself, but I was overcome with sleep, so there. Good luck with Sherlock – he's confused, but you're very special to him'

John sat at the sofa and took a bite of the muffin. He smiled at the note, feeling warm at the kind gesture. It was a bit awkward that Sherlock told Mrs. Hudson what happened, but well – the damage was done already and there was nothing John could do about it.

But... he made Sherlock Holmes _confused_. That was it. He couldn't have nailed it better. That was unprecedented and cheered him up in some strange but pleasant way, though he was still angry and knew they needed to talk. Sherlock might be confused, but John had been confused too, and no one helped him then, and especially not Sherlock.

* * *

In the middle of the night, the door to John's bedroom flung open and hit the wall with a thud.

John sprang up abruptly, clutching his gun in his hand and pointing it at the door.

He could have expected it was Sherlock. He was standing there, still in his coat, panting slightly, his figure dark against the lit up staircase. His head was bowed and John could see it had been raining because his hair was wet. John felt his anger ball up in his throat.

He put back the gun to its usual place on his bed table with a very steady hand.

"Goddammit, Sherlock, you can't just storm into other people's bedrooms like that!", he said in a very low voice, although he really wanted to yell at the man, so he made sure that he put all his rage into the furious whisper. "You know already that I can't live without our work and yet you dismiss me off a case for some bloody stupid reason! Because admit it, that _was _a stupid reason! You could sometimes _think _about what other people feel, even if you don't sympathize, because one day I might as well just go away myself and never help you again if you keep treating me like shit!"

"What I did was... not good", Sherlock said, his head bowed so that John couldn't see his face. John blinked at him. Sherlock Holmes had just admitted to having made a mistake. He didn't actually say sorry, but him admitting to a mistake on his part was definitely something. "I tried to delete it, but I can't", Sherlock continued in a voice that had a disturbing, painful overtone to it, as if he was about to cry. John had never heard him speak that way genuinely, and somehow he knew that what Sherlock said was genuine. "I can't delete anything that relates to you. I don't know what is happening to me".

"Ok, let's get it straight. First you tell me you feel _something_ towards me, immediately after that you hurt me with your sharp tongue, and then wake me up in the middle of the night. That's not a good start to a relationship, and I've really no idea what you will have to do to make it up to me", John said calmly, getting back under the covers and lighting up hid bedside lamp. Sherlock chose that moment to take two graceful, long strides towards the bed, sink to his knees at the side and press his face against John's chest. He inhaled with a rasp.

There was enough time for John to notice that Sherlock's nose was bleeding, but he couldn't bring himself to push Sherlock away just because of that. He put a tentative hand on the wet black curls. Sherlock's gloved hands were clutching the duvet on John's shoulder, hiding his face from John's view.

"Sherlock, your nose is bleeding. There will be blood all over my sheets", John said as if he were talking to a misbehaving child. He knew perfectly that what Sherlock did now was an apology, done in the theatrical style that Sherlock was so fond of, but he couldn't see any reason why his duvet was to be destroyed in the act. "Can we go to the bathroom so that I can see it and then we can talk?"

Sherlock, after a moment of hesitation, shook his head against the white duvet. His gloves were leaving black, wet smears that looked like mud against the white sheet. He was holding on so hard that John could hardly move.

"Why is that?", John asked, now stroking Sherlock's head. How could he be angry anymore? Maybe he was too lenient and too soft, but he couldn't help it. The man he loved was there on his knees, holding him in place, _begging_ him not to leave him alone... What the hell had happened in Sherlock's life that he was so desperate for John to stay? And if he didn't want John to leave, why did he treat him like shit before? Mrs. Hudson often said that Sherlock wasn't really experienced in the area of feelings, he himself said that relationships aren't really his area, and there he was, begging John to forgive him, which definitely had to do with a great deal of feelings. Maybe he just couldn't process them all at once. John could tell on his own example that being attracted to another person was sometimes a bit overwhelming even for an average human being, let alone the socipathic bastard.

But still it was a bit frightening. John had an impression similar to standing on a precipice. He could just stay there and stare in awe at the abyss of difficulties that was in front of him, or just try and jump, hoping that he will manage to reach Sherlock's soul before he loses his mind.

"Sherlock, look at me", John commanded, but kept his voice soft. He hoped so much that the bastard wasn't crying because he wouldn't be able to bear it. It was, of course, ridiculous to think that Sherlock ever cried, but he had surprised John enough times that day in order for the doctor to be prepared for everything.

Sherlock slowly raised his head over his fist clutching the sheets. His eyes were gleaming, but not red, thankfully (and John had seen him crying already so he could tell how he looked like then, although it was all an act at that time), but the way he was looking at John told him everything that he wanted to know and hear.

"They don't write about it in the books, do they?", John asked, smiling softly. "Look, I know you're confused by what is going on in this ridiculously marvelous head of yours right now, but you really can't just treat me like that. If you are ever confused, can you just tell me instead of yelling at me? I promise I won't leave you, because I can't. I accept you just as you are, even though you keep surprising me and I can't always keep up with you, and sometimes you make me so angry that I want to kick something very hard. But I need you like I need air, you give me a purpose to live with, and I don't want to go back to what I was before I met you, so please don't make it any more difficult for me, for us, will you?"

Sherlock was silent for a moment, looking at John with wide eyes, but otherwise his expression was inscrutable. John could hardly believe the depth of his own psychological reasoning.

"I thought my purpose was the work, but that was before I met you", Sherlock mumbled at last against his hand. "But now I want to do my best for _you._ Not anymore for myself, not to show off to Anderson and everybody else. What they think of me doesn't matter at all anymore. You smile at me and compliment me, and that's when I feel accomplished".

John smiled with a sigh. Sherlock responded with half a smirk.

"Don't ever dismiss me off a case again, okay? No matter who there is and whether I know the witness or not", John whispered, running his fingertips against Sherlock's jaw. He could definitely get used to the light stubble there.

Sherlock closed his eyes and John felt his body relax against his chest. He moved Sherlock's hand to see the duvet. As he expected, there were bloody smears all over the place where Sherlock pressed his face, but at least his nose stopped bleeding.

"The reasoning was as follows: given that when you're around, I can usually focus better, _ergo_, when you're not around, it's harder for me to focus", Sherlock said in a very low voice and very quickly, as if he wanted to get it out of his head as soon as possible. "This time when we were still in the taxi I couldn't focus on the case because I was thinking of you, and it made me angry, so I considered it an exception to the rule and assumed that if I tell you to go home, it would be better. But it was even worse; I thought about you even more and knew that I did something wrong. Actually, it was so bad that I had to let off some steam and I earned a punch in the face from your therapist".

John chuckled. "My therapist hit you? What did you tell her?"

"I don't know, must have deleted it", Sherlock replied dismissively. John grinned.

* * *

"You can sleep in my bed, if you want to", Sherlock said, watching John put the white duvet under the tap, trying to wash away some of the blood stains.

"And where will _you_ be sleeping?", John asked distractedly, putting more soap on the cotton fabric.

"In the same bed, of course. Now that we are in a relationship, it's advisable that we sleep in one bed".

John stopped his ministrations and looked over his shoulder. Sherlock was leaning against the door-frame, already in his old pyjamas, arms crossed and eyes tired, the blood cleaned off and the side of his face just a little bit bruised. Ms Thompson surely had some power in these frail arms of hers.

John left the duvet to soak; he would wash it thoroughly tomorrow.

"You don't have a spare duvet anyway, and it's still too chilly to sleep under a blanket", Sherlock continued. "So I generously invite you to share my duvet with me, which implies that we have to sleep in the same bed".

John weighed the possibilities in his head. Sherlock did have a point, obviously, but there was something that bothered John. Sleeping in one bed meant that they might cuddle, or worse, engage in sexual activities, and John thought it was the worse part because he wasn't sure that he was ready for that, especially after the very tiring day. Of course, he was attracted to Sherlock, and might want to have sex with him one day, but somehow the idea was still a bit awkward in John's mind. It apparently wasn't true that men wanted sex 24/7.

"Don't you think it's a bit too early for that?", he asked finally, leaning against the sink, mimicking Sherlock's posture. "We've been in a relationship for around eight hours, and we've already had a date, a row and now you want us to have sex?"

"Well, the latter part is on agenda only if you want to do it", Sherlock said, looking away from John. His crossed arms tensed visibly. "I can... compensate to you for what I'd done earlier".

"What do you mean, compensate?", John asked sheepishly, thinking he was again not quite following Sherlock.

And then, when Sherlock licked his lower lip, probably unconsciously, John realized what he meant. His mind went blank at once and he found it really hard to get his voice to work, so he just took a very deep breath while approaching Sherlock until he could place his hands on the detective's chest.

"Don't even think of it", he said on exhale and regretted it at once as Sherlock's eyebrows went up and the corners of his mouth twitched downwards. "I mean...", he took a deep breath, "you really shouldn't treat sex as a means of reconciliation because it's... not good. And I don't need it. You apologized to me, and it's perfectly fine now, okay?", he continued, breathing heavily between the phrases, hoping that Sherlock would make out what he really meant.

Sherlock blinked at him. John sighed and pressed his forehead against Sherlock's collarbone. He liked how Sherlock's T-shirt smelled, it was a little bit the expensive scented line of cosmetics that he used and a little bit just Sherlock. The latter smell was... warm, in a way. "I am attracted to you, it hasn't changed, these things don't change that rapidly in case you don't know that", John said. "But promise me you will tell me one day about what happened to you in the past, okay? Because I see some serious misunderstandings of the matters of the heart there".

"I thought sex was a matter of the body", Sherlock said, his low-pitched voice echoing in his chest.

"But being with you is a matter of the heart, at least for me", John retorted, nuzzling the crook of Sherlock's neck. Sherlock's hand went up and stroked John's nape. It was a very pleasant sensation. Sherlock's hands, despite being very elegant, were rougher than a woman's, and somehow it only made it better.

"So... you still want to freeze under the blanket?", Sherlock asked, his tone no more tentative and probing, but rather amused. "Or rather go to bed with me and, well, probably hold hands?"

"Well... if you insist", John replied, grinning against Sherlock's chest.


	6. Interlude 1

**A/N: I decided to include short interludes in the story which will probably be very fluffy. The story would make sense without them, but I guess that you can never have too much fluff. (let's save the darker parts for the other parts, shall we?)**

* * *

John lay on his back in Sherlock's bed, covered up to his neck, his hands stapled together at his chest, and awkward silence overwhelming him even though he was still alone in the room. He could hear the buzz of electric toothbrush coming from the bathroom, not quite sure what he should do when the buzz stopped and Sherlock came to join him in the bed. Should they cuddle? John had been quite fond of spooning in his previous relationships, but the women were always shorter than him, which meant that he usually spent the whole night trying to get their hair out of his mouth, and besides, he wasn't sure whether Sherlock liked it as well or not. In general, the detective wasn't the first person to show any socially acceptable forms of affection (an analogy to a cat bringing its loved ones dead mice sprouted in John's head; that was definitely something Sherlock could do). So, no spooning, probably. No sex, either. It seemed that they were doomed to hold hands after all.

And then Sherlock came into the bedroom, closing the door softly behind him and turning off the light. He made his way to the bed in the darkness and lay down. John could make out his outline against the white sheets as he settled on his back as well.

John cleared his throat but said nothing. It was Sherlock who broke the silence.

"So, John, what position do you usually sleep in?"

"Well...", John started, but then the absurdity of _talking _about such things dawned on him. It wasn't a bloody rocket launch, it was sleeping. "Are we really having this conversation?"

"Well, I would prefer to know your habits before I do something to cause you discomfort", Sherlock retorted as if it was obvious that the best way to get over it was to talk.

"It doesn't work this way", John sighed and turned, so that one of his hands was on Sherlock's chest, just over his heart. "We just have to try and see in which position we feel the most comfortable, and there's no need to rush anything. We probably won't sleep perfectly on our first night together, anyway", he blushed when he realized how his words sounded. He was glad that Sherlock couldn't see his face.

"Okay", Sherlock agreed warily and put his hand on John's. After a few minutes, during which John was beginning to slowly drift off to sleep, Sherlock tugged at his wrist, pulling John towards him. Then he manipulated John's body, tickling him in the process, which earned him a wave of giggles from the doctor and total lack of cooperation when John tried to evade the tickles, but at last Sherlock managed to put John in front of him and embrace him from behind with one hand.

The first thought that occurred to John was that he had never been the small spoon before, but it felt good.

The second one was: how had Sherlock known that he liked to spoon? Was it that easy to deduce?

And then he dismissed all the unimportant thoughts and just relished in the pleasant sensation of being held like that. When he was the big spoon, he always felt as if he was guarding the small spoon from all the evil in the world (or probably just the monsters from under the bed), and somehow _being_ guarded in such a way was... heartwarming, even if a bit awkward and attacking his masculinity. He wondered for a moment whether Sherlock felt the same.

"Is this good?", Sherlock asked, his voice rumbling in his ribcage once again.

"Mhm", John murmured and then sighed, adjusting his position against Sherlock's chest.

"I assumed that I, being the taller one, should be the big spoon".

"Mhmmm", John half-murmured, half-moaned, hoping that Sherlock wasn't going to start one of his para-scientific rants.

He was granted with a sharp inhale from Sherlock.

"Do it again", the detective said in a low voice that had an excited overtone to it, but John was too tired to deal with Sherlock's intake of empirical data at that moment.

"Sherlock, shut up, I'm trying to sleep here", he mumbled, drawing Sherlock's arm tighter around his middle. There was silence for a moment, and then Sherlock whispered.

"I think I might like sleeping with you".

John could definitely hear a grin in that.

* * *

**A/N: And now, ladies and gentlemen, awkwardness in the form of morning erections.**


	7. Chapter 5

**A/N: Hello again! Sorry for not updating for such a long time, it's been very busy two weeks (I was very busy with NOT writing my M.A. thesis, for instance). Here, have another chapter in which not much happens. I would appreciate comments very much, as I was re-reading this series recently and I thought that something is desperately missing in my writing, and I would like to know what it is, so every concrit helps.**

**Also, this wasn't beta-read, but if anyone was willing to beta-read what comes next (and maybe review what has been published already - hey, I know it's usually the other way round), I would be grateful! (just PM me)**

**By the way, I wanted to remind all here that this is a sequel to Tricks of the Mind, which is linked to in my profile ofc. I think that it's better to read TotM first, but it's not that much necessary.**

**Thank you for reading, favouriting and reviewing:)**

* * *

It was blazing hot when John woke up. His T-shirt was clinging to his chest and stomach, sticky with sweat, and he desperately needed some water for his sore throat, which was dry as a bone. And speaking of bones, he definitely had a boner. He smirked to himself at the clever wordplay and kicked the duvet away from his legs to cool down a bit.

He shifted on the bed and realized that he had been so hot because _someone_ was embracing him with one arm from behind and breathing hot, damp air onto his neck. This only proved that last night hadn't been one of John's dreams and he was really sleeping with Sherlock in one bed, and they were _spooning_.

That was unbelievable. He was _spooning _with _Sherlock_. Next time he wakes up he will be dancing with the Pope or something. It was around the same level of probability.

And, if it wasn't awkward enough as it was, John came into realization that most healthy men, like himself, had morning wood in the, well, morning. And Sherlock was a man too. So he probably had morning wood as well.

_Oh God, please don't make me do anything stupid_, John thought, trying to find a way to cope with the possibility of grinding his arse against an erect cock. It would be a totally new _gay_ experience and John wasn't sure he was ready for that.

Of course, John knew that Sherlock had a functioning penis. Living with someone meant a glimpse every now and then, especially as Sherlock had quite a relaxed attitude when it came to dressing in anything for sleeping, which also included an occasional leisurely stroll to the bathroom with nothing but a bedsheet or his open bathrobe on. And several times John had to clean a wound or check a bruise on Sherlock's hip or upper thigh, which meant being rather close to the said penis. Usually John just averted his eyes, a habit he got as a doctor and confirmed in the army, but sometimes he was simply _curious _about things like,what colour the head was (more red or pink, or maybe brownish?) or whether the skin there was as silky as it looked; the more he tried not to think about it, the more images his mind seemed to provide, retrieving them from the long-forgotten corners of his memory.

He smiled to himself at the thought that a few months ago the mere thought of Sherlock's genitalia would totally freak him out and he would classify the whole thought as disgusting. How so many things have changed since then!

However, there was still the problem of his own erection that was tenting the front of his boxer shorts. John tried to escape the tight embrace, but it seemed that Sherlock was holding on to him with all his might. So John just stroked the hand resting on his stomach, trying to think of something asexual, like chairs, or Mrs. Hudson, hoping that it will be enough and that he wouldn't have to explain anything.

But the motion of stroking the hand was in itself quite intimate and erotic; just as he realized that, a shiver went down his spine. The skin was so soft and smooth, he could spend all day just touching it, stroking, kissing, licking... He managed to turn slightly in the embrace with the intention of waking Sherlock up in a way different than simply running away to the bathroom, but was met with a scrutinizing stare from the detective, already in full operating mode.

"Good morning, John", Sherlock said, giving him one of the genuine smiles that seemed to be reserved only for him (or at least John hadn't ever seen Sherlock smile like that to anyone else, save maybe Mrs. Hudson, whom Sherlock treated as if she was his favourite aunt). Despite the frankness of the kind gesture, the glare was still analytical.

John frowned. "Did you sleep at all?", he asked.

"I fell asleep somewhere between around 3.30 AM and slept until 6.07 AM, when I woke up as you kicked me in your sleep-"

"Sorry about that".

"-but you were so utterly fascinating in your sleep that I couldn't find it in me to doze off again".

"Wait, you slept only for 2,5 hours?", John asked, frowning even more. Sherlock nodded. "Would you mind going back to sleep now? I'll just, erm...", he made an attempt at shoving Sherlock's arm away from his waist, but to no avail.

"I believe I've told you that I can't fall asleep again", Sherlock rephrased as John was trying his best to wriggle out of the detective's embrace.

"Why the hell are you holding on to me so tight?", he asked finally, giving up his struggle and falling back against the mattress, panting.

"That's what couples do, don't they?", Sherlock asked, a hint of confusion in his voice. "It's called cuddling, and beside spooning and hugging it is one of the least sexual ways of showing affection".

"Oh, God", John sighed and ran a hand over his face, trying to rub away the remains of sleepiness. "I've no idea what you have been reading, but did they tell you not to overdo it?"

Sherlock hesitated and then reluctantly unwound his arms from around John and moved several inches away.

John turned his head to look at Sherlock and for a moment thought that he was looking at a puppy that had been kicked, so miserable was the expression on Sherlock's face. John immediately regretted his words, extended his hand and stroked Sherlock's soft curls.

"Don't make that face", he said tenderly, laughter lining his voice. "I didn't mean that I don't want to spoon, cuddle, hug and kiss and do all other stuff that is typical to couples, it's just that... we don't have to tick anything off any kind of a list, especially one taken from the net. Take it easy, I'm not going anywhere, m?"

John didn't feel particularly confident in the field of romantic social interactions, but he certainly was more experienced in them than Sherlock, which here was a great asset. As expected, the detective approached the whole thing like a new scientific experiment – with all his typical, a bit nerdy zeal and enthusiasm.

It was endearing, but John needed to slow him down or it could be uncomfortable.

Sherlock was looking at the ceiling with so much interest that John thought for a moment that there was something on the white surface.

"What is it now?", he asked, sitting up and untangling himself from the duvet.

"Well, speaking of lists, we haven't had a proper kiss yet", Sherlock said in a tone that he usually used to make John prepare tea and biscuits for him. John laughed, got to his feet and headed quickly towards the bathroom.

"Not before I brush my teeth!", he called playfully, ruffling Sherlock's hair as he walked by.

"John!", Sherlock groaned with reproach, sitting up and making an attempt at grabbing John's arm, but John was quicker and withdrew his hand just in time.

"Some waiting will do you good!", he chanted on his way to the bathroom. Sherlock whinged once more and then apparently accepted that he would have to wait until after breakfast.

John locked the bathroom door and leaned against it, laughing. It was so nice that they were so much at ease around each other and could just bicker around and joke and laugh... He felt truly relieved that after their first fight as a couple they could get back on tracks so quickly.

But something was tugging at John's conscience deep inside, apart from the fact that his stained duvet was still just lying there on the floor, forgotten. He looked at his face in the mirror. There was a gray hair on his temple, so he plucked it. It was true that he was getting older every day, but he didn't seem to get any more wiser. He took off the sweaty T-shirt and boxer shorts, turned the tap on and stepped under the warm spray of the shower.

It was crazy what he was doing, this whole being in a relationship with Sherlock Holmes, who was extremely unpredictable and has already proven it several times, showing displays of affection that John didn't think he was even capable of.

That was probably what was bothering him. Sherlock normally didn't let anyone even touch him (not that anyone wanted to), and here he was flooding John with proofs of his affection like a teenager. Of course, John liked it; he had wanted to touch Sherlock for so long, and now he had a perfect opportunity to do so, but... there was always a _but_, and it had to do with the fact that John was still working on his identity. Sherlock would not understand it; for him it was a matter of a yes or no answer, and John simply needed time to adjust.

But how can he communicate it to Sherlock without the guy feeling hurt?

John stopped soaping his armpit. _Hurt_. God, Sherlock was hurt so easily. He hadn't noticed it before. He only realized it at the pool, when John was all covered in Semtex and Sherlock thought for a moment that John had betrayed him, which at first John took only as a proof that Sherlock did, actually, care for him, and that proof was irrefutable.

Sherlock opened himself up to him, and he seemed to have been taking it for granted. Which was the shortest way to hurt Sherlock in a very cruel manner, and hurt himself in the process, too.

So John wasn't the only person who needed to work on his issues and take his time. _Shit_, it was getting crazier than expected. That was some thin ice to walk on.

John rinsed the soap off and squared his shoulders. He had invaded Afghanistan, for fuck's sake, he could handle a relationship with Sherlock Holmes, especially as Sherlock was willing to continue it as much as he did. Everything would be all right; it was just their second day, after all.


	8. Chapter 6

**A/N: Hello everyone and all the best in 2014! :) sorry for such a delay in posting, I've been having a hard time writing this chapter and several others that will come ahead because they deal with Sherlock's thoughts and memories, and while it's still from John's perspective, I was really unsure whether I can render Sherlock in a way that won't be OOC. So please tell me whether I succeeded! (if I didn't I will have to live with it ;))**

**Concrit is VERY much appreciated also on the account that I'm not really sure whether this chapter works well with the whole fic. Generally I'd like to post several chapters in a row dealing with Sherlock's memories with some dialogue and action, just to give the background story the way I see it, but I'm afraid I'll go into sentimentality or make it simply boring.**

**Anyway I hope you'll enjoy this chapter! :)**

* * *

When John came out of the bathroom, he was greeted with the smell of eggs fried on butter. He rushed to the kitchen to see whether this was really the case, and was greeted by Sherlock who was putting two plates full of scrambled eggs and toast on their _clean _kitchen table; he showed John to his chair.

"Who are you and what did you do to Sherlock Holmes?", John asked jokingly and earned a what-you-said-was-stupid huff from Sherlock. He took the seat and examined the toasted bread. Maybe it wasn't done the way John would do it, but it was the first time in ages that someone made him breakfast.

He picked up the fork and lifted the fried egg with it. It looked genuine and edible, even if slightly burnt.

Well, if that wasn't _something,_ then John didn't know what was. Sherlock only made food when John yelled at him to do so (although the fact that Sherlock complied with his wishes at all was quite a clear sign that Sherlock treated him as someone special), or that one time when John was down with the flu and Sherlock made him some chicken soup because Mrs Hudson was away (the soup was fairly good, even though John was pretty sure it was made with a bouillon cube and not real chicken bones, which on the other hand probably was the safer option in Sherlock's case). And now he made _breakfast_. It was probably one of the most romantic things Sherlock ever did in his life.

And he even sat down to eat it with John. And brought him tea. And turned on the radio.

They ate in silence, quickly as the eggs were getting cold already, but before John finished his meal, Sherlock spoke.

"It was when Seb made me do handjobs for him, at uni", Sherlock said all of a sudden.

John almost spat out what he was chewing. He managed not to, but instead choked on it. Tears welled in his eyes and he took a big gulp of tea to wash it down, but instead burned himself.

"WHAT?!", he managed to spit at last. Sherlock was unabashed.

"You had asked me what happened in my past that made me treat sex a way of reconciliation, so I'm telling you", he said. John took a deep breath. He certainly wasn't expecting Sherlock to tell him right away, but in fact, what was he counting on when he had asked? That Sherlock would tell him a sentimental story about his mum who was unhappy because she couldn't have a daughter or something? Well, if he did, that would scare John even more, because it would mean that Sherlock was deliberately lying – how could he ever tell a sentimental story otherwise?

Sherlock continued, "At uni I already loathed company, but Sebastian was one of the very few people who listened to what I was saying and even admired me for it without being a nuisance. He tried to make me less bored. But all this came with a prize, just like pretty much everything else in the world".

"You mean, Seb Wilkes?", John asked, still processing what Sherlock had just said. The detective nodded. "This is pretty fucked up", John added, putting all the information in order in his brain. His brain provided him with an image of Seb and Sherlock in a dorm room, on a bed, half-naked, doing _things, _Sherlock's hand caressing the hard flesh and Seb's eyes dark with desire, because, come on, Sherlock could be quite sexy if you ignored the sociopathic part.

But John will never be able to look at Seb the same way again. He never would have thought that Seb was... Not that there was anything wrong with being...

"You mean, he's gay?", he asked finally, and then another realization dawned on him, "You mean you're gay?!"

Sherlock looked at John with the exasperated expression that meant his patience was wearing thin. John realized what he had said and let out a nervous chuckle. It will certainly be difficult to get his mind over all that, and he could already see that Sherlock wasn't at all happy that he would have to dig things out of the attic of his Mind Palace, so there was no use overreacting at that point.

"Okay, okay, I guess it's pretty much obvious... right now, you know, after, um", John said quickly to appease Sherlock and chuckled again at his own stupidity. "Sorry, I still can't get used to this new... thing, that we have".

"Does that answer your question?", Sherlock asked finally and lifted his tea mug to his lips.

"Yup", John replied, but then he took a deep breath, and corrected himself, "No. I want to know everything".

"Sometimes it's best to be ignorant about certain... aspects", Sherlock retorted, averting his eyes. There was a long pause, and something in his face spoke of vulnerability.

"Sherlock", John took one of Sherlock's hands holding the hot mug and squeezed it gently. The skin was warm after the contact with the hot porcelain. "I want to know everything that you _want to tell me_. I'm not going to make you do it, but if there's anything that you deem important, just tell me".

That was a kind of a mistake.

* * *

Sherlock sometimes talked a lot, especially if unasked, unless he had one of his quiet days or just wasn't generous enough to let his brilliance descend upon the meager minds of the common folk. But when John did ask him to tell him his life story, he was flooded with a three-hour discourse which wasn't exactly unpleasant, but it explained some elements of Sherlock's complicated personality, and these elements were more often than not simply fucked up.

The first fucked up thing was how Sherlock came to the conclusion that he didn't need anyone at all.

First of all, Sherlock's father almost died when Sherlock was nine. It was a yacht accident that made him never regain the strength and authority that characterized him beforehand, and it must have been very painful for Sherlock, but he didn't remember it very well, because he deleted everything except the most vital information, as John had expected. That was the moment when he learned to delete things that were too painful, too boring or simply useless for one reason or another. Then Mummy, as Sherlock still called his mum, fell into depression, probably because she felt guilty about what happened to Mr Holmes. She was a very strong woman and loved her two sons deeply, but dealing with her own broken heart made her sometimes fall behind. So she played the perfect mum and wife, and she tried to be there when Sherlock needed her, but she simply wasn't able to understand what it was that was blooming in Sherlock's head while she didn't understand herself. On the other hand, Mycroft had always been the apple in her eye and she spent more time with the elder brother, considering him to be her angel. And so Sherlock started to solve his problems in his own way. And gradually stopped needing anyone whatsoever, or so he thought.

At school, kids mocked him because he always spoiled the fun (which was still a habit of his), and he was even beaten once or twice by bullies who took advantage of the fact that Sherlock was more keen on books and observations than on sports. The teachers didn't like him either because they were pissed off that a brat was correcting them, or afraid of his brilliance, or exasperated at how hopeless Sherlock was if he deemed a subject not interesting ("_Ethics _and _Philosophy_, for Heaven's sake!"), or simply brought on the verge of a mental breakdown when Sherlock just wouldn't behave. So Sherlock was sent to the school psychologist every now and again, his parents were summoned to school as well, but there was not much to be done, as Sherlock could always switch to his charming self only to get what he wanted, and besides he was a great asset to the school, as he won every single scientific competition there was, just because he was curious about how things worked.

Mummy had said she was proud of him, but Mycroft often scolded Sherlock for not behaving in accordance with social norms. Sherlock just couldn't be the angel that Mummy wanted, and he knew that Mycroft wasn't one either, and sometimes he would tell Mummy what Mycroft did behind her back, but it upset her, so he stopped doing it at one point. Anyway, unable to please anyone, Sherlock decided to at least be pleased with himself, and so he immersed himself in what interested him – in solving puzzles, because that was what gave him the feeling that he didn't need anyone anymore at all. He wanted to be perfect at it, and sometimes he tried his abilities against other kids', who were stupid idiots and utterly hopeless, and against Mycroft's, who was at least a decent opponent, but Sherlock was never satisfied unless he worked out the solution himself.

* * *

"I think you needed your mum more than you imagine", John said.

Sherlock shrugged, but didn't say anything, so John elaborated.

"After all, it must have been hard, but she never gave up on you and Mycroft; she brought you up to the best of her abilities, and trust me, I know how hard it is to even get out of bed in the morning when you're really depressed. So while I understand that you felt left alone, I think you should thank her for trying so hard".

Sherlock looked at John's face, though not really trying to look him in the eyes. John knew that he had just hit a sensitive spot, and Sherlock immediately retreated into his usual, unbearable self. It seemed that he didn't care whether John saw it or not, or maybe he wanted to let him see the more emotional side of him.

"And I think you should do it before her time in this world is over", John added in a small voice. There was a pause in the conversation and then he moved onto the couch to sit beside Sherlock. The detective reached out and placed a hand on John's shoulder, seemingly reassuring him.

Of course, Sherlock had known that John's mum was dead. She died because of a disease diagnosed too late, and that was why John decided to become a doctor – to prevent such things from happening, because he knew just how much it could hurt to know that such an even could be prevented.

The gesture made John feel warmth in his heart and he smiled.

"That's okay, I'm already over it", he said, taking Sherlock's hand. "It's been a long time, you know, but I think she helped me to become who I am now, even though that wasn't obvious to me at times".

"She must have been a very interesting person then", Sherlock said, and John chuckled at the unexpected praise.


	9. Chapter 7

**A/N: So this chapter was corrected like 10 times or more. I'm really afraid that no one will like it, but as always I appreciate concrit very much :)**

* * *

"Tell me one thing. Why didn't you delete any of these?", John asked after he made them two mugs of fresh tea.

"I deleted the details. I can't delete vital information on my past because it has been proved that it would be awkward in real life", Sherlock said, putting five cubes of sugar in his tea. John bit his tongue before he said anything about what excess of white sugar did to the body.

"So what, do you have an attic in the Mind Palace where you put all the less important stuff about your past?", he asked instead.

Sherlock blew at his tea to make it cool quicker. "Yes, and I sometimes go there and look through things, maybe put them in order, get rid of things that are not useful anymore. Pretty much like normal people do with their attics, cellars, cupboards..."

"Isn't it tedious?"

"Very much so".

"Then why are you doing it now?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Because you asked me to".

"Remind me, when have you started doing things because I asked you to?", John asked with mock reproach.

"Around the same time when I started doing things because you like them", Sherlock replied in the same tone.

"Oh, yeah. Then", John nodded, although he knew there was no such moment and Sherlock was just being silly. "Ok, could you continue?"

* * *

At high school Sherlock was drowning in the wave of hormones. He didn't have any problems with female attention – it seemed that every girl was in love with a sociopathic, introverted, dramatic, tall and skinny show-off (John immediately thought about the Japanese animated film series that his sister was fond of when she was a teenager; skinny, handsome drama queens like Sherlock were plentiful in such productions, and usually in love with the main female protagonist; he should show such a series to Sherlock sometime, he would laugh his ass off).

But most of the girls were boring to Sherlock, and after chasing after a few of them that seemed a bit more intelligent than the deplorable average, Sherlock decided that this whole concept of courting was tedious to the extreme and only to be used in case of emergencies, because the girls either didn't catch or didn't accept his attempts at flirting. He polished his technique, of course, and by the end of high school, he could quite efficiently get a girl to do what he wanted just by talking to her (mostly thanks to his charming _alter ego_), but he never felt like pursuing a relationship with any of them. It was, according to Sherlock, like trying to chase a rabbit after it was already caught, therefore, illogical, unsatisfactory and completely useless. So he usually did it just for fun, for deducing the shit out of the poor girl, and then broke it off, which earned him a few punches in the face and one kick in the guts.

* * *

"Some things simply don't change, do they?", John laughed. "And you really remember all of that?"

"Well, it makes for a nice anecdote when I have to do the _small talk_", Sherlock uttered the two words as if they were burning his tongue. "It's much easier with real-life stories than with imaginary ones, because you don't have to remember what you invented".

"So, any of these girls, did you kiss them?", John asked, scratching Sherlock behind the ear. The detective changed his pose somewhere during his speech and was laying on the sofa with his head resting on John's lap.

"Out of these, no".

"Were there any others? Girls? Guys?"

"Patience, John".

* * *

So, as Sherlock learned by observing, sex was boring, clouded one's mind, involved feelings and could lead to social trouble. But it was a powerful tool that more often than not made people do what they did; he had read books on it since he was a kid and he carefully stored information about human intercourse habits, but he never felt bound to use it in practice, unless it was to flirt with the said human beings while solving cases in order to obtain data or manipulate the person (there was no difference if he wasn't going to have sex with them anyway). Of course, he had periods of sexual frustration in his life, which started to be less disturbing when he reached adulthood; these periods felt as if his body was betraying him by wanting something so tedious, boring, sloppy and generally not too hygienic ("Because sitting in pyjamas all day is extremely hygienic", John remarked), but if the need became so frustrating that it interfered with the thought process, Sherlock got rid of the tension by "having sex with someone equally intelligent", in Sherlock's own words punctuated by a satisfied smirk. John did a facepalm at the cliché statement.

But then Sherlock added with a very serious, although a bit self-conscious expression that since he met John, he sometimes thought about him when he was getting rid of his sexual tension, which made it a bit less tedious. And then he quickly changed the subject.

At uni, Sherlock met Seb Wilkes, who seemed to understand Sherlock and even admire him, and there was one Victor Trevor, who was a very smug guy and introduced Sherlock to drugs. Seb told Sherlock nice, kind things, just like John did sometimes when he was pleased with Sherlock. He even wrote tests for Sherlock when they were too boring for the detective to even bother to lift a pen. He spent time with Sherlock and wasn't a nuisance because he was quiet and let Sherlock do the talking. And Victor brought Sherlock release from boredom when there was nothing to do and everything was about to become just too much to handle. Sherlock thought that he wouldn't be able to live without either of them, and it seemed that the two guys developed some kind of a sexual desire towards Sherlock. Seb was first, asking Sherlock to return his favours by "taking care of him", as he put it. Sherlock didn't mind; handjobs were nice; the amount of liquid wasn't enough to create a mess and Sherlock could think about other things in the meantime because it was so mechanical. But once Victor walked in on Sherlock "taking care" of Seb and demanded the same kind of treatment in exchange for small, "recreational" doses of drugs that Sherlock happily accepted and consumed, finally free from boredom. Sherlock saw nothing wrong with that, but John saw just the opposite; however, he tried hard not to judge Sherlock. Everyone made mistakes, right?

* * *

"So, you're sorta-not-a-virgin-but-still-quite-so?", John asked, still quite amazed that Sherlock decided to tell him all that part about uni. However, Sherlock seemed to stay totally undisturbed by this confession, and maybe John was imagining it, but it seemed that Sherlock's voice became softer after he uttered the words, as if it was a relief to him.

"You certainly have more experience with women than I do, although from what I have observed I dare say that you have not been particularly successful in actually having sex with them", Sherlock replied, his long fingers tracing patterns on John's chest. "But you've never seriously been with a man, although you felt tempted".

John didn't even bother asking how Sherlock knew that. "What do you mean by 'seriously'?"

"Let me explain it on an example. In the morning, you were visibly uneasy about the possibility of my erect penis touching your buttocks".

"Was there such a possibility?"

"Of touching your buttocks?"

"No, of you having morning wood, you jerk!", John slapped Sherlock playfully on the hand.

"I wasn't asleep already when you woke up", Sherlock said, laughing and giving John a nudge in the ribs.

"Okay, okay, I get it, I don't observe _again_!", he laughed, pulling Sherlock's hand away from his middle. "Anyway, never mind, I'm not sure whether I want to know that. Maybe later".

* * *

But the handjobs soon proved not to be enough for Seb and he found a girl to ease his growing sexual needs. He still spent time with Sherlock, and his girlfriend at the time was bearable (at least she didn't open her mouth unasked). However, it wasn't the same anymore. And Victor went to the United States for a scholarship without a word to Sherlock, and Sherlock was very angry because he had to find someone else who would ease his boredom again.

John thought that was when Sherlock started to be afraid that someone would leave him again, which led to him being even meaner to everyone in order to isolate himself further, which was a kind of a vicious circle. But of course Sherlock couldn't isolate himself entirely, and soon there were several people with whom he interacted regularly and mostly out of his own free will. Those were the few people for whom he simply cared, even though he would never admit it openly and gave rather peculiar proofs of it, which made the caring part not that obvious for people who didn't know Sherlock well. Even John usually missed the signs.

After uni, Sherlock was bored to depression and delved further into the realm of cocaine and morphine to calm his hyper-active mind, which led to his parents being very upset and Mycroft almost losing his mind when Sherlock spent yet another night somewhere only he knew. From there, John knew the story, as Greg Lestrade had told him the whole thing one night when they went to the pub to have a pint or two or five: he told him how one night Sherlock, obviously high, appeared at the police station he was working at and started wreaking havoc, asking Greg for a case to solve; but Greg was a wise man and told Sherlock he would give him a case only if he went to rehab, which Sherlock did, with Mycroft's blessing. Sherlock didn't remember much of that time, saying he had deleted it. Well, it was already behind him and John didn't feel the need to make him elaborate.

* * *

"So this is it, I think", Sherlock said. "I think I gave you the most important data and I even tried to serve them in a way that would be interesting to you, so you owe me one. By the way, I purposefully avoided touching the subject of Mycroft, though once I went on to him being fellated by his friend, which was kind of funny, but-".

"Yes, you assume correctly, I don't want to hear anything about Mycroft", John interrupted.

"-but he's also into some _very _interesting kinks".

"Okay, I definitely didn't want to know that", John retorted, putting his hand over Sherlock's mouth, muffling the groans of protest escaping from there.

"I'll let you go only if you promise to change the topic", he said with a mock-cruel smile. Sherlock nodded, rolling his eyes and John let go of his mouth. Sherlock said nothing, which was better than elaborating on Mycroft's kinks.

"So, a question about your story; sorry if you told me but I didn't catch it: have you ever been, you know, in love?", John asked. Sherlock was silent for a moment more. He closed his eyes and John thought that maybe he fell asleep just to avoid answering the question, but no.

"I don't know", he replied at last in a serious tone of voice. "I don't know how to tell, and please don't ask me now whether I love you because I. Don't. Know. Don't make me say that again, you know I hate admitting it".

John thought about it. His fingers started slowly tracing these ridiculous cheekbones, first the left one, then the right one. He then traced the straight line of Sherlock's nose, the wide forehead, the silly eyebrows, the strong jaw with a hint of stubble. Sherlock at first tried to follow his fingers with his gaze, suddenly tense. He surely wasn't used to this kind of touch, but then he saw that John was simply calming him and trying to _learn _his features, having never touched him like this before; and that was when the detective relaxed, closed his eyes and smiled softly. John liked it when Sherlock smiled like that, when tiny wrinkles appeared on his cheeks. He smiled back.

Sherlock was beautiful like that. It was still an awkward thought, but he was. If someone had told John a year ago that he would be stroking his flatmate's face after listening to a story about his past, he would have laughed his ass off. But there he was, doing just that. Being in love with Sherlock Holmes.

But being in love was one thing. Being in a _relationship _was much more than just admitting Sherlock was brilliant, having him spoon John at night, eating breakfast together, telling each other stories about their past and stroking each other's faces. It felt like being in a relationship for the first time, not only because Sherlock was a man, which was obviously unprecedented, but also because he was a very special man. And for Sherlock it was definitely the first relationship ever. Was John ready to handle such a novelty?

"Maybe you just need time", he said in a low voice, only realizing he had said it aloud when Sherlock's eyes snapped open. So he continued, more to himself than to Sherlock, "I'm telling you that what you're feeling is perfectly normal, everyone is confused at one moment or another. That's why it takes another person, who is equally as confused, to form a relationship. They work it out together".

"Are you confused?", Sherlock asked, sitting up and shifting so that his bent legs were over John's. He put his head on John's shoulder and was looking at him expectantly.

"Yes", John breathed out. "Hell, I am". Then he licked his lips and slowly leaned towards Sherlock, closing the space between them, and placed a short, chaste kiss on his lips. They were slightly chapped, but apart from them being a bit less soft than feminine there was not much difference. Sherlock was definitely kissable, so there were options to explore.

"So that's how _you _do it", Sherlock said pensively when they parted. His eyes were bright and his cheeks were slightly flushed.

"Experience saved in the Mind Palace?", John asked mockingly. Sherlock nodded with a murmur, winding his long arms around John, who chuckled at the sudden ivy-like behaviour. "Do you really have a shelf in your Mind Palace for all that concerns me?"

Sherlock smiled with barely concealed pride. "Please. I have a whole room for you. With a king-sized bed and a jaccuzi".


End file.
